A Life in the Day
by GenRemy
Summary: A series of 'A Life in the Day' Queliot one-shots.
1. Hey

Quentin's decision was the culmination of a number of things. It was the result of the toil of trying to solve the puzzle weighing on him, it was the lights, the fire, the night, the drinking…the feelings nagging at the back of his mind. The ones he hadn't been able to shake since a messy night gave him a taste of a new side of his best friend.

The night with Margo and Eliot was a point of great guilt for Quentin. Guilt over how it made Alice feel, over how it ruined his first great love and guilt over how some part of him couldn't seem to be sorry for what happened.

For hurting Alice, he was apologetic, but he couldn't be sorry for how that night changed his eyes. Because now every time he looked at Eliot, he could see one layer beneath him.

In every glance at Eliot, he saw their bodies moving together. In every glance at Eliot, he tasted his lips. In every glance at Eliot, he envisioned a thousand what ifs and hundreds of maybes.

In every glance at Eliot, he was hit with a shot of curiosity about what could be. Curiosity that was satiated just by being his friend but that kept pushing him to think about just a little bit more. What could come of sober kisses and clear-headed caresses?

"Happy anniversary, Q," Eliot said, pulling Quentin from his thoughts as he raised a cup for a toast. "To our first and last year at this thing."

Quentin clanked his cup against Eliot's, offering a small, distracted smile as they drank. His mind was full of reasons to try. They were alone. They would be for a while. The night was beautiful. And they were close. So close together that every breath Eliot took moved Quentin's body.

"Hey," his mouth spoke before his brain could catch up.

"Hey," Eliot responded quietly, a question in his voice, the word cut short as Q closed the distance and pressed his lips to Eliot's. It was brief and he pulled back to let the moment hang between them. He couldn't take back what he'd done, he could only leave it to Eliot.

Quentin moved back and watched Eliot decide, watched his brow furrow in confusion, felt his hand caress his own while the other slid up to cup his neck and pull him in. Eliot went in hesitantly, as if he was trying something familiar to make sure he still remembered the taste correctly.

The beautiful thing about the moment was that there wasn't enough thinking. Quentin kissed Eliot without thinking about what his lips on Eliot's meant then and Eliot kissed him back, not stopping long enough to let the questions steal the opportunity.

Their mouths moved together at a languid rhythm, like they were tiptoeing around the thought of pressure and intimacy. Like they were testing the waters, testing if their memories had done justice to the feel of what they were together.

And they didn't let go even when they answered the question they'd both been dying to answer: _Should we?_

They didn't let go even when clothes were shed and lips became more insistent, tongues tangling again and again, breaths becoming more and more harsh. They didn't let go even when their bodies were slick with sweat, their throats dry, their minds filled with the euphoria their actions gave.

Because in their efforts, they confirmed what they both knew all along.

"Um, so," Quentin started the next day as they were back to work on the mosaic. He needed to know if Eliot felt the same answer pass between his lips.

"Yea," Eliot dragged out like he knew where it was going. "Um, let's just save our overthinking for the puzzle, yeah?" And he looked at Q with all the wisdom Quentin himself, had learned the night before as they lay together, exploring each other and peeling back layers, putting things in place and taking them apart over and over again until they arrived at the same end.

"Yea," Quentin agreed and they held each other's brown eyes long enough to pass over the beautiful answer one more time.

It didn't matter if they should or shouldn't.

It didn't even matter what they'd done already.

The answer was in the time that passed as Quentin found a wife, had a child, experienced loss and the beauty of shaping a young life and did it all with Eliot at his side. The answer was that it didn't matter what they called each other, what promises they tried to make, what meaning they tried to give to the feeling of skin on skin.

None of it was about romance. It was about the depth of their relationship as a whole because no title, no promise, no feeling would ever change their love for each other. The love that transcended romance and friendship and lust.

The kiss, that night, those nights, were just manifestations of a bond that could never be broken or taken away. All it did was confirm what they knew all along.

They could be whatever they wanted to be because nothing would change what they already were.

Soulmates.

 **-h-**

 **A/N: Hi, this exists because I over-analyzed the kiss scene so many times and the fact that nothing really came from it that I arrived at the conclusion that maybe it meant that nothing had to. Plus, Hale and Jason said Queliot were soulmates and I screamed so OF COURSE THIS HAD TO EXIST!  
Drop a review and let me know what you think and what other scenes/ships you'd like to see written about from my over-thinking perspective. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Adjustments

Eliot slid the final two tiles from the pile onto the mosaic and stood back, waiting. _Please, please, fucking please,_ he thought to himself as he watched the tiles. Nothing happened.

He groaned loudly, gripping his hair in frustration. They'd been here forever already, tried more combinations than he could count and the repetition and tedium was starting to drive him insane.

"Are you okay?" he heard and tore his hands from his face to meet Arielle's gaze. Eliot wasn't sure he'd ever stop hating how she insisted on wearing her blonde hair in the same miserable looking braid. And did she have to carry that fucking basket of peaches everywhere she went?

"Great," Eliot replied, spotting the bread boy a little way away and brushing past Arielle without another word. She stood still for a second then looked after him, a tight expression on her face. Quentin came from the house, kissed her cheek and wrapped his arms around her.

"Good morning," he plucked a peach from her basket and took a bite before he saw her face. "What's wrong?"

She opened her mouth then closed it again. She didn't want to come off sounding crazy and she didn't want to be wrong. She saw how Eliot and Quentin were around each other and wasn't prepared or eager to ever put Quentin in a position to choose.

"I just…I don't think Eliot likes me very much," she finally admitted, voice mild.

"Eliot? No. He's just…slow to warm up to people."

" _Quentin_ ," she said pointedly with a gesture over her shoulder. Quentin looked behind her to see Eliot standing with the local bread boy, Bryce, who'd came by a few times and was currently hip-to-hip, mouth-to-mouth with Eliot.

"Oh," Quentin managed.

"I don't think it's people he's slow to warm up to. I think it's me." Quentin opened his mouth to deny it but didn't have a single solid argument. In truth, he hadn't paid much attention to how they interacted. Quentin and Eliot's friendship was fine as was Quentin's relationship with Arielle and he'd used these facts to assume _everything_ was fine.

"Can you talk to him?" Arielle asked, her wide eyes looking up at Quentin pleadingly.

"Arielle, I'm sure it's nothing-"

"Quentin," she said firmly and he stopped speaking. "Is he family to you?" Quentin didn't hesitate to answer.

"Yes."

"Then I want him to be family to me. Quentin, please."

"Annnnnd, nothing," Eliot huffed as yet another pattern failed. "It's your turn to write it down," he said as he stood and took another sip from his cup.

"Yea," Quentin started, fiddling with the paper. "Yea…hey, El?"

Eliot turned and raised his brows questioningly, the glow from the surrounding fires making his brown eyes light. It was late in the night, had to be nearing midnight, and Q and El were still at work on the mosaic. The torches lit around the square and their tiny cottage cast an orange glow over everything, completing the peaceful ambiance as crickets and other creatures that called Fillory home provided a soft soundtrack.

"Um," Quentin held his fingers to his lips as he thought of how to initiate the conversation.

"I realize my response was silent but still, I think this is the part where you say words," Eliot said with a smile.

"Right. Well, I guess there's no skipping around it, do you, um…do you hate Arielle?"

Eliot's brows rose again in disbelief. "Are you kidding? No, I don't hate Arielle."

Quentin breathed a sigh of relief, a huge weight lifting off his chest. "Thank god, cause she-"

"I mean, I don't particularly like Arielle but _hate_ ," he said, taking another sip as he leaned against a table. "Such a strong word."

Quentin blinked at him. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly," he said, his voice dry, his face growing cold suddenly.

"What has Arielle ever done to you?" Quentin asked, standing from the mosaic and approaching Eliot. "She cooks for us, she helps with laundry…"

"I said I didn't hate her."

"Eliot!" Quentin said firmly, his voice rising a bit. "Be serious."

Eliot rounded on him, setting the cup down.

"How am I supposed to feel, Q?" Eliot asked, advancing on him. "She shows up and then this idyllic little fairytale unfolds for you and _fuck me_ in the background, right?" he scoffed as Quentin's face showed nothing but confusion at his words. Where was all this malice coming from? They spent every night and half the day together on the mosaic. "You kissed me," he went on. " _You_ kissed _me._ How is it fair that you get to move on?" Eliot asked loudly, his finger landing sharply in the center of Quentin's chest.

Quentin fliched at the movement, growing angry as he processed Eliot's words. "Fair? This is my _life_ ," Quentin hissed. "And move on from what? This isn't about Arielle, this was never about Arielle-"

"It could never be about your precious Arielle, right?" Eliot spat condescendingly. "Waltzes in with her stupid fucking peaches, never lifts a hand to help with the mosaic, just hangs around-"

"Why are you saying this? _Why_ would you say this-"

"I tried not to. You think I want to be standing here looking like a complete dick? I had to-"

"I have a wife! You're saying this now and I. have. a. wife!" Quentin suddenly exploded, his feelings, his confusion finally brimming over. His eyes shot to the house where Arielle slept and he lowered his voice. "She's pregnant," he finished lowly and it was a chore to meet Eliot's eyes after the words were out. Eliot was taken aback and his face showed as much, mouth half open, eyes wide.

"I…" he started but he couldn't find the sentence's end. He stopped to take in the moment; his rapid heartbeat, the black smog of anger sitting in his chest…and the overwhelmed look on Quentin's face. He took a thick breath and calmed himself down. Quentin needed him.

"Yea," Quentin said lamely. He didn't understand. It'd been Eliot who put a stop to discussing the kiss they shared. "W-what happened to 'saving our overthinking for the puzzle'?"

Eliot laughed. A soft, low laugh. "I meant let's not overthink it and instead just go with it." It was Quentin's turn to look shocked as he turned over the words. When Eliot dismissed the talk, he assumed the kiss, that night, the feelings he'd had were one sided. Assumed it was so underwhelming that Eliot didn't even want to discuss it for fear of ruining their friendship. "I pussied out, didn't want to talk about it. Then we got busy with the mosaic and I just thought we were waiting for the right time again," he continued, shaking his head pitifully. "I didn't know you were gonna fall in love, Q. I didn't know."

"It's not your fault," Quentin started quietly after a moment and Eliot met his eyes and held on as he spoke. "You weren't alone," he began, "It's not like you're crazy. I felt it, too. That night was amazing," he admitted and Eliot nodded emphatically and the two shared a laugh. "But I didn't know you were waiting," they grew quiet again, their smiles dropping. "And now…Arielle…"

Quentin paused to find the right words. "I love her," he said into Eliot's eyes so he knew he meant it.

"I know," Eliot responded, his voice a whisper. And he did. And he also knew his bitterness was a remnant of feelings that had now dulled and faded into a fierce, _platonic_ love for his best friend.

"I love you, too," Quentin went on, eyes drilling in this declaration as well.

"I know."

"But…"

"It's different," Eliot finished for him, a weak, knowing smile on his face. Some part of his heart broke. A small part still holding on that hadn't fully embraced the concept of platonic.

"It's different," Quentin echoed. Eliot saw the worry start to grow on Q's face and rolled his eyes, making one thing clear before Quentin could dare start doubting it.

"Quentin Coldwater, you high-strung super nerd," he started, a small smile playing on his lips. "I will always love you."

Quentin smiled; that closed lip, wide, fond smile that was always just for Eliot. The two shared a hug, neither completely sure who initiated it and held each other tight, staying there long enough for their arms to grow sore from the strength of the embrace.

"So, what now?" Quentin asked as they moved apart.

"Now we raise a fucking baby," Eliot proclaimed. "I've always wanted to be a father," he said dreamily, fishing for a laugh.

"Eliot, you _are_ a father," Quentin reminded.

"Oh, yeah. Right," Eliot deadpanned and they both broke into a fit of laughter. "I'm sorry I got bitchy and turned into a jealous ex," Eliot apologized, throwing an arm around Quentin's shoulder. "Promise I'll grow up and take my job as Daddy Number 2 very seriously."

Quentin laughed, walking them back to the mosaic. He stopped suddenly at the edge. "I'm fucking terrified, El," he said seriously, his face paling.

"Hey," Eliot said, gripping his shoulders til Q met his eyes. "The kid's got three chances to not end up fucked up," Eliot reasoned. "And if we all fail?" he shrugged. "I'll be with you every step of the way. We can fuck them up together."

 **A/N: I watched the mosaic scene literally a million times in the past two days and Eliot turns over and sees Q and Arielle kiss but we never. get. to. see. his. expression. So, naturally, I assumed El would be petty. That's why this exists.**

 **I actually can't stop writing about Queliot. It's beginning to be a problem.**


End file.
